


A Light in the Window

by birdwomanNC



Series: Bugs on the Grill [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Autumn, truck driving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 07:27:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16718986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdwomanNC/pseuds/birdwomanNC
Summary: This is an original work.  The writer is a truck driver and these stories and poems are written especially for truck drivers, although anyone and everyone is free to enjoy them.





	A Light in the Window

A LIGHT IN THE WINDOW

Vince slowed down as he passed the convenience store, glad that it was still opened, then glancing at the time realized it was only about 6:30. He spotted a nice, long parking spot just a little ways up the street. As he slowed down to ease the big-rig over to the curb he glanced up at the house, about a half block past the store, its big front window making a bright golden rectangle in the late autumn darkness. He shut down the engine and reached back for the beat-up, old brown leather jacket. As he stepped out of the rig he wished briefly for a hat; the fine, misty drizzle was icy cold. Well, it was less than a block—he’d survive. 

As he walked up the street he glanced up at that bright slab of light, watching her walk across in front of the window toward a flight of stairs at the edge of the scene. It was almost like watching a play, but a play you’ve seen before, where you know how the scene will be played out. He paused to watch as she turned and called up the stairs, waited, called again, feeling his lips curl up into the slightest hint of a smile. Although he couldn’t hear her, he knew just what she would be saying and, sure enough, there appeared first one, then another half-grown girls, bouncing down the stairs, annoyed to have their play interrupted, but not terribly so, since this was the evening routine, no different tonight than any other night. She lifted the centerpiece of fall flowers and leaves from the table and put it on a sideboard, then headed back into the kitchen. As he watched her go something in his throat seemed to become so tight it was difficult to breathe.

She was not a pretty woman, really. If you’d passed her on the street you probably would not have noticed her at all or, if you did, if she were pointed out to you, you might say she was rather plain. Yet somehow here, in the warm glow framed by the window, she radiated a strength and beauty that could take your breath away. It was as if that warm glow had been created by her, by her presence, the goddess Vesta personified, that caused hearth and home to exit at all.

The girls got out a table pad and then a cloth, squabbling good-naturedly the while about each not getting her side straight. Then they bounded off into the kitchen, braids bouncing. Suddenly he realized he had been standing there a while, long enough that cold water was running off his hair and down the back of his neck, so he turned and continued on up the street, crossing on a long angle to the store.

It was so bright and warm in the store and he was so wet and cold that he found it hard to think of going out again and he might have stayed longer, much longer, dawdling down the aisles, but the house, the bright window called to him. As he walked back up the street he noticed that the misty drizzle had turned into a sleety rain that slid along his cheekbones like tiny razors. “Roads gonna be icy tonight” he was thinking. Then thinking about flowers, bringing home flowers, 18 wheels and a dozen roses, nonsense like that. The convenience store, of course, didn’t sell flowers.

He had never brought her flowers…never?...no, not even once that he could remember. Never. Why? Or, why not? 

* * *  
He had never really loved her. No, that wasn’t actually true…more, he had not been in love with her. Well, things had gotten off on the wrong foot to begin with. They’d met at a party, at a friend’s. She was cute and sexy and a great dancer and a great kisser. Of course, back in those days almost anything female looked cute and sexy to him. But they’d hit it off, found they liked the same music, same books, thought the same TV shows were lame. She liked sports, both to go out and do things like hiking, biking and tennis and to watch pro sports on TV. She loved football and for Superbowl Sunday she got the girls in the crowd to get together and set up a big Superbowl party. There were all kinds of yummy things on crackers, chips and dips, popcorn and soft drinks. One of the girl’s brothers was over 21 and he brought beer and several things stronger. They’d all had a wonderful time and by the end of the evening almost everyone was too drunk to drive.

Some time around Valentine’s Day he’d started thinking it was time to move on. She’d seemed to be getting kind of clingy. She had a look in her eyes when she looked at him that made him feel downright uneasy. Then, sometime between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday she’d let him know he was going to be a papa. “Oh” he’d said “I guess that means we’d better get married.” The idea that there might have been other ways of dealing with this situation had not occurred to him until much, much later.

It hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected. After the initial shock the folks, both his and hers, had given not only their blessings but as much support, material, social and emotional, as loving parents could be expected to and then some. Their friends had all ribbed them of course, given her a baby shower and him a bachelor party. Since everyone already knew the bride was pregnant she didn’t have to try to squeeze into some tight dress to hide her “condition” but found a dress that fit her and her “condition” beautifully. She had looked so, well, glowing, that for just a little, at least for that day, at least for “I do” he had felt the pride and happiness of matrimony and impending parenthood more than the dismay of being so trapped so soon.

From the first moment they’d laid his baby daughter in his arms he’d fallen in love in a way he’d never even imagined existed. He’d had to sit down, just holding this tiny being he’d helped to make in his arms, rocking gently back and forth and making stupid cooing noises at her. He’d been afraid fatherhood would be a burden, that he’d be a failure, but now that it was in his arms, all he could feel was awe. 

Not that it was easy. Even with what assistance the families could provide, education plans had to be curtailed and work plans promoted. With not much education to fall back on, the choice of jobs was limited to the low-wage, bad hours variety. One of them would work days, the other evenings; they worked weekends, graveyard shift, whatever they could get so one could be home with the baby while the other was at work; there was no money for child care. This meant they seldom saw one another except in passing and then were usually too tired to do more than exchange a few words. Yet, somehow, somewhere in that rushing back and forth, they’d found enough time to get pregnant again. This meant that she would have to stop working, at least for a while. He’d worked two jobs, one from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. and one from 11 p.m. to 5 a.m. The ends were still so far apart they couldn’t even wave to one another! He was thinking of trying to squeeze something in on weekends when her cousin Tony suggested truck driving. Tony had just finished driving school and even his first pay checks were as much as Vince was making at his two jobs together. Of course, it meant being gone a lot, but he was gone all the time now anyway. At least he wouldn’t be running from one job to another like a chicken with its head cut off.

Truck driving had proved to be the ticket, his ticket to a life that suited him to a “T”. The company advanced money for driving school and would pay back half if he stayed with them for two years. After two years he had finished paying off his share, the company had paid half and given him several small raises that added up to enough to support his family without his wife having to work at all. The down-side of this was that he seldom got to spend much time with his two beautiful, growing daughters. He always feared he’d some time come home and have them say “who are you? You’re not our daddy. Our daddy is a man who lives here.” The good side was that he did not have to spend too much time with his wife.

Sometimes he felt guilty. No, most of the time he felt guilty. He had never fallen in love with her; she’d been cute and sexy, then she’d been pregnant, then she’d been a mother. In those early years he’d not stopped to think about it; there wasn’t any time. But his main bond to her was their mutual love of the children and need to provide a home for them. To him she could have been any woman. But when she looked at him he knew that was not how she felt at all.

One night when he was home for several days he got a call from Larry, who’d been his best friend in high school and best man at his wedding, asking if he wanted to go out for a beer, maybe shoot a little pool. When he hesitated Larry quickly said “Look…if you’re busy…” There was something in Larry’s voice. “No” he’d said and Larry’d come by and picked him up. After they’d had several beers and shot several games Larry said “You know how lucky you are?” 

“No” he said, “what do you mean?”

“Sarah and I are one the rocks. She’s moved out.” He looked down into his beer for a while. “She’s moved in with someone else…You…you guys, you have a family, you guys are rock-solid. You really are one lucky s.o.b. You know she thinks you hung the moon.”

Yeah, he’d guess she did. Whenever he came home, whatever hour, day or night, she always had the kids there to greet him, the house straightened, his laundry from last trip done, something wonderful to eat, the bath ready, clean clothes laid out. She tried to manage the money carefully, always asked before buying anything expensive or darn near anything for herself. When it was time for him to leave she’d try hard to keep it from showing that she was about to cry, knowing how it annoyed him. She’d just hold him and say how she loved him and how much she and the girls missed him when he was gone. And he’d pick up the girls and kiss them and tell them daddy loved them and would call every night and to be good and all the usual crap. Then he’d give her a peck on the cheek and say “I’ll call.” He never said “I love you.” It would have been a lie. Sometimes, when she said “I love you” he wanted to say “Well, I don’t even like you.” But that would have been a lie, too. He did like her and he’d grown to like the warm comfort of the home she had created. But when she got all clingy and got that “you hung the moon” look in her eyes, he just wanted to push her away.

* * *  
He paused on the sidewalk, staring up at that lighted window, watching the two girls arguing about whether to put the napkins on the plates or next to them, how to arrange the silverware, where to put the water glasses. Occasionally their mother would come out and say something to them. 

* * *  
Whenever he came home he’d always try to bring the girls a little something from some place he’d been. Nothing big, mind you. One time he’d brought them each a rock from the top of Loveland Pass in Colorado, telling them how high it was, one time a jar of water from the Mississippi River (yes, girls, that’s why it’s called the “Muddy Mississippi”), sometimes T-shirts from different states. He’d never brought his wife one single thing. Well, that wasn’t entirely true; he did bring her something, but that was later.

Being out on the road had another advantage beside being able to make decent money, travel around and see the country and not have to spend over-much time with a wife who had become just a fixture in the house to him. He now had an opportunity to meet other people and that away from prying eyes of neighbors, friends and family. He was, after all, a healthy, red-blooded man and not at all bad-looking. He was careful not to let himself go the way some drivers did. He worked hard to watch his diet, which is really hard work when you have truck stops as your main source of nutrition. He worked just as hard to get exercise, which is also difficult when you have a job that involves sitting most of the time. He always did his own unloads, never hiring anyone to do them for him, and found other ways to get exercise as well. All in all he kept himself looking good. His wife, after two babies, had worked hard and gotten her figure back pretty much but somehow “cute and sexy” and been replaced by “mom.” At least, that was what he saw when he looked at her. But there was this one waitress and this one truck stop…He knew her schedule and always tried to stop there, even just for coffee, whenever she was on. One day he finally asked her if, when she got off, he could take her out to breakfast. She laughed…after all, she worked in a truck stop! “No” she said, but her car was in the shop. She was going to call her mama to give her a ride home, but if he didn’t mind…

* * *  
The girls had started bring things from the kitchen: bread, butter, pickles, cheese, salt and pepper.  
The table was almost ready.

* * *  
There were, over the years, several waitresses, one woman truck driver, and one hitchhiker. The hitchhiker had proved to be a problem. He was headed home when he’d seen the young lady with her thumb out on the side of the road. She had long hair and a nice build. He’d pulled over on the shoulder. “Where you heading?” “South” she replied. By the time he got to the next rest area he just had to pull over. It wasn’t until afterwards that she gave him the standard hard luck story through rotting teeth and asked for some cash that he knew he’d made a big mistake. The mistake got bigger when he got home, though he didn’t realize it until the following week, when he was out on the road again. He started having problems which eventually led him to seek medical attention. Nothing that couldn’t be cured by penicillin, and so it was. 

He knew he had to tell her…he was just trying to figure out how, or what, or something. Each night he’d call and ask her how she was, how she was doing. Each night she’d say “fine” and he’d pray that somehow she would be “fine” and he’d never have to tell her at all. He found himself praying “Dear Lord, if she’ll only be okay and I don’t ever have to tell her, I’ll never do it again.” Suddenly, for the first time, he realized what she had become to him, all the grace that had showered down on him over the years by her hand, because of her love. It was a love he had seen in her eyes from the beginning, that had never dimmed, so he had taken for granted it would always be there. He had never done anything special for that love, just paid the bills, come home for clean clothes and loved their children. That had always seemed to be enough.

One evening he called and his older daughter, now age 7, had answered the phone. “Mommy’s not here, she’s in the hospital. She got sick. Grandma is here taking care of us.” What had been a minor annoyance for him, cured with a little antibiotic, had grown silently inside her for weeks, to erupt with a violence that almost brought an end to her life. It did bring and end to her life as a woman and it did bring an end to her life as a wife. At least, as his wife.

Now he was free to pursue all the waitresses in North America. Somehow it no longer mattered.

* * *  
Suddenly the woman came out of the kitchen and, for a moment he thought she was looking out the window, staring right at him. But then she turned to the stairs and he saw a man coming down, shirt sleeves rolled up as if he had just washed his hands. She went into his arms and the girls wrapped themselves around them forming a tight double-circle.

He looked over, noticed there was a car in the driveway, which had not been there when he had walked down to the store. Steam rose as the icy rain hit the still-warm hood. He looked back into the window, a tableau, a living diorama as they moved apart to their places at the table and bowed their heads in grace. For just a moment the icy rain on his cheeks felt scalding hot, then he turned and walked back to his truck. He fired up the engine, peeled off his soaked jacket and kicked the heater on to high. He reached into the bag, took out a sandwich and a six-pack, looked at them, put the sandwich in the cooler, popped the top on one of the beers, kicked on the lights and the wipers, and pulled away from the curb and into the night.

* * *  
Don’t sit there in my doorway cryin’ / You always knew that I’d be gone / Don’t look back—walk on


End file.
